For they are...
...Short straws in my long beard
The urine to be drunk on rising
Holes in the moneybag
Tombstone-lichens
The hopelessness of hospitals
Depraved experiments
Screaming rust on the cages
of laboratory animals
Limbs mashed by landmines
The oppressive presence of absence
The despair of asylums
Dead fleas from the Angel
Vomit on in-trays
Frightened albinos
Decaying slaughterhouse-concrete
Maggots on bones
The drowned smells of psychiatrists
And the smegma of the teaching wolf
poem by Anthony Weir
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Related quotes
Emotional
loneliness seeps through my bones,
wondering,
there is no hope,
screaming sorrow in my brain,
hopelessness,
all in vain,
come with sorrow,
equals pain,
emptiness all in my head,
wondering,
when ill be dead,
broke my bones,
and,
bled me dry,
I just hope,
nobody saw me cry,
carelessness in my blood,
i am now,
face down in mud,
cornered in my mind,
restlessness,
i have now,
run out of time.
poem by Alicia Roseberry
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Multiple
In Buddha's sunlit laboratory
(or Dhamma chamber) ,
experiments by laboratory assistants
(or monks)
demonstrate
that if you shine the light
of investigation
on form, feeling, perception,
thoughts and consciousness
and apply continuous mindfulness
at the very centre
of the rising and falling
of these phenomena,
all things are seen
to be without a permanent self
and a state of Peace
is found behind the suffering,
which fevers this loose aggregation of parts
we claim as our own self,
and replaces it.
"We rise on stepping stones
of our dead selves
to higher things."
"It is excellent, good Gautama, "
says Prince Abhaya.
"It is as if one might set upright
what had been upset,
or might reveal
what had been covered
or show the way
to one who had gone astray
or bring an oil lamp into the darkness
so that one with vision might see...'
poem by Brian Taylor
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Tampa
Tampa from those whom sent him,
the back section of their house.
The letter which is written never.
Each judge of his who reads.
Read long in the concrete box.
To be long it has died in remainder,
but because of a certain in order to short-circuit,
excessively why he would know.
There was and his et. al
above everything to they was there lie.
And From Tampa
They Sent him away,
never but always back home.
Letters never written.
Each Judge clever breed.
Reading in a long concrete box.
Too long to be dead
To short too know why.
The kicker
and theirs
Was my lye.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Peach Grove Next To Abbatoir
Next to an abbatoir
grows a peach grove.
The former has screams.
The latter is silent.
The slaughterhouse
stinks of blood and urine
and solid waste.
The peach grove is fragrant.
The slaughterhouse yields
a maximum 1000 pounds an acre of
food.
The peach grove yields in
trilevel agriculture four hundred
fifty thousand pounds an acre.
The slaughterhouse is labor
intensive and causes many worker
injuries and deaths.
The peach tree requires nothing
but a seed beneath dirt. The sun
and rain and mother earth
do the rest.
The slaughterhouse food causes
cancer, heart disease, food
poisoning, kidney failure, arthritis,
food poisoning fatalities.
The peach grove is God-designed.
poem by Saiom Shriver
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Red Line Angel
She’s going be a red line angel
Screaming in the forest when no ones around
She’s going be a red line angel
Soon to be a milk carton photo never to be found
Stumbled too far and now the horror stories true
Charged under a cold steel moon of electric blue
Only the stars to witness the atrocity of her death
A machete across the throat that stole final breath
Join the hoards of those before him through years
Now the reality of the stories they heard in fears
Is reflected in his face when he spills crimson tide
As the monster lives to ensure you can never hide
She’s going be a red line angel
Screaming in the forest when no ones around
She’s going be a red line angel
Soon to be a milk carton photo never to be found
So much death and the smell rise’s in permeation
To greet the heavens of so many souls damnation
Almost robotic when it removed her shaking limbs
Drowned by cutting tools of her screams and whims
Please, please, please now he’s crying for freedom
Begging for the last sense of emotion to condemn
Before the blade sinks between the ribs of sanity
Encouraged by wicked smiles before his finality
He’s going be a red line angel
Screaming in the forest when no ones around
He’s going be a red line angel
Soon to be a milk carton photo never to be found
poem by Vision Ghost
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Grey Dog of Despair
Death? I don't know what it is.
But this I know - that death
Is twice as deep with despair.
I am frightened of the Grey Dog whose eyes
Are two red holes; whose body is a sheet
Which chokes; whose tooth
Will gnaw a living hell from cold
And tumble thoughts to ruin in his throat.
I am frightened of the Grey Dog whose tongue
Will burn the blood to dry; whose claws
Will cut the wounds which close;
Whose growl
Is a terrible token of no light, no love, no longing -
Only a mingling of mad misery and despair.
poem by Tan Pratonix
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Release From Locked Up Cages Aged
Release from locked up cages,
Aged.
Release from locked up cages,
Aged.
Release from locked up cages...
Aged.
Release from locked up cages.
Come everyone...
Release from locked up cages.
Come under the Sun...
Release from locked up cages.
Come feel the breezes.
With fresh air to keep!
And make it yours,
In your mind.
Get more than you need.
And...
Release from locked up cages.
Shake off the rust.
Release from locked up cages.
What's there to lust?
Or trust.
Worthy of your cussing.
Come everyone...
Release from locked up cages.
Come under the Sun...
Release from locked up cages.
Come feel the breezes.
With fresh air to keep!
And make it yours,
In your mind.
Get more than you need.
And...
Release from locked up cages,
Aged.
Release from locked up cages,
Aged.
Release from locked up cages...
Aged.
Release!
Be freed,
From locked up cages aged.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reminiscence
I STAND in old Earth's presence; over all
The warm, pervading sunshine seems to print
Life and the Present; and there is no glint
Of white bones from the Past's decaying pall;
When, lo! some subtle scent holds me in thrall;
Or an uncertain, evanescent tint,
That of a fuller summer seems to hint,
Wakes long-imprisoned yearnings that recall
Half-memories of strange unthought-of things,
That seem were once a vital part of me—
Unmeasured, mystic, vague imaginings!
And all Life's presence and the sunshine flee,
The listless æons of my life I see,
And in my face the dead Past flaps its wings.
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Show Tune II
That's the long and short of it
now you know
how I've been waiting all these years
where I'm coming from
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
now you see
just how hot hot jazz was
how it turned about, my bookcase
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
now you know
that my arrest record's
not my best record
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
now you see
how the Past's like a love
you can neither leave nor live
that's the long and short of it
That's the long and short of it
now you know
it was no gun in my pocket
it was a rocket
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
and you're wond'ring dear
how I kept so pure
hull, it was easy
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
now you see
so bounce your head
into bed
that's the long and short of it.
That's the long and short of it
read the blues
in these tattoos
make a song of it
that's the short and long of it.
How I wish
there was a bridge-
then I could burn it;
or the train
of a refrain
then I could board it
but there isn't
no there isn't, so...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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What the Sexton Said
Your dust will be upon the wind
Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country's tears.
When this idyllic churchyard
Becomes the heart of town,
The place to build garage or inn,
They'll throw your tombstone down.
Your name so dim, so long outworn,
Your bones so near to earth,
Your sturdy kindred dead and gone,
How should men know your worth?
So read upon the runic moon
Man's epitaph, deep-writ.
It says the world is one great grave.
For names it cares no whit.
It tells the folk to live in peace,
And still, in peace, to die.
At least, so speaks the moon to me,
The tombstone of the sky.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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An Angel
An Angel stood on a roof
so silent and still
watching what was going on
in the world below.
The Angel was invisible
to the naked eye
and only animals
could sense the presence there.
The angel watched
the passing of vacant lives
and could only help
when it heard someone’s cry.
The Angel, a sentinel
of our waking lives.
16 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Our Actions
His beard is not long enough,
But to plot evil and destruction is what he is;
And of the untold hours of pain, agony and despair!
But, my life will surely go on.
Caution to the minds!
We will surely reap the consequences of our actions;
For, the unrighteous fruit has brought bombs to all mankind,
And like our arrows and our sorrows.
Who should be loved? ! !
When we have to leave the world empty handed;
Who should be loved? ! !
When we have stained our hands with blood!
But the sea divorced you and, i drunk the water from the ocean;
And, the river does not flow through the forest without breaking down trees!
However, his beard was not long enough.
Speedy to the plunder and swift to the spoil! !
Who then should be punished? !
And, of the untold stories of pain, agony and despair;
But, my life will surely go on to fulfil my dreams in this world of wars.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sonnet 60: When My Good Angel Guides Me
When my good angel guides me to the place,
Where all my good I do in Stella see,
That heav'n of joys throws only down on me
Thunder'd disdains and lightnings of disgrace:
But when the rugg'st step of Fortune's race
Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she
With words, wherein the Muses' treasures be,
Shows love and pity to my absent case.
Now I, wit-beaten long by hardest Fate,
So dull am, that I cannot look into
The ground of this fierce Love and lovely hate:
Then some good body tell me how I do,
Whose presence absence, absence presence is;
Blist in my curse, and cursed in my bliss.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Concrete & Steel
Hard and cold, like a street of gold,
Its easy to find but so hard to hold.
Smooth and strong but it wont last long,
When the rust sets in, shell be good as gone!
Concrete, concrete and steel.
Its like concrete.
Hey baby, whats the deal?
A heart of stone make you feel alone,
But what can you do when your hand is blown?
Hard as ice, its like tumblin dice,
Before you fall for her boy, you better think twice.
Concrete, concrete and steel.
Its like concrete.
Hey baby, whats the deal?
Dark as night, diamond bright,
Never seen such a strange delight.
Slick as glass, and just as fast,
Youll feel the pain, but it wont last.
song performed by by ZZ Top
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hospital
Large, heavy, wooden, daunting doors
loom before my eyes as I enter.
An empty side office, reception
with old fashioned filing cabinets,
dark now, glass shutters, closed.
Another heavy door in front of me,
this one leads to a wide, cold floored corridor.
I baulk, want to turn heel, go home.
The black and white tiling, lofty ceiling,
does nothing but repulse me.
More heavy, locked doors
with tiny, peep hole windows, all barred.
Screaming, faint screaming echoes,
ghost like, as it drifts towards me
gradually getting louder.
I reach a wide, stone staircase.
Everything's locked and bolted,
no one passes and the screaming echoes.
Asylums, those old mental hospitals,
where we still send the forgotten
to live out their lives and rot.
You wouldn't ever call this home
and the world outside rolls on
as the traffic drifts by.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Her absence too enthuses.
When I shared her presence, I was in exuberance.
When I left her, her absence kept me in excellence,
As I mediated on the essence of her presence,
Experienced in our romance, a rare occurrence.
Her presence and absence are charging me alike.
21.10.2000
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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And You Shall Forever Be
And you shall forever be
all that could not be said of me
though I spoke for myself as long as I could
to answer your absence in paint and words
like this night creek talking in tongues to itself.
I see the maple leaves rotting in manuscript
like the dead civilization of a mummified language
that never made it into print.
And though I know every name
of the wildflowers that did, and of the stars,
their perennial myths of origin,
and of the fireflies, their efflorescent haikus,
tonight I walk among bones and pelvises of ice,
the desecration of forms, limbs lobbed off
like the right arms of offended trees and the eyes
of small skulls plucked out like stillborn moons
that never made it through the winter.
Alone with this emptiness which yet remains
the biggest clue I've ever found
to the whereabouts of myself,
I am not estranged by my usual compassion
for outcast things with no voice of their own.
There is no pillow of snow over the mouth
of what can't be said without me.
The dead don't hold their fingers
up to their lips to bid me keep silent.
They're all dancing wildly to lyrics of their own
in a winter carnival of deathmasks
that have shed their bodies
like the hags of the withered waterlilies
trying to wash the brown out of their gowns
like sunspots from the memory of the stars.
As if there were an eloquence
in the radiance of their rags
that overwhelmed the silence
with the sacred syllables of a mother-tongue
that has no word for time or death.
No word for life that distinguishes them from me.
Not just moonlight on the barkless limbs of mannequins
that have shed their skin seductively.
Not the dead of a northern Pompey
frozen in ash and ice and snow
catastrophically posed for generations to come
but the hymns of the homeless
who've finally found common ground
with the tent cities of the stars high overhead
and the gypsy moths in the Dutch elms.
The long vowels of the living joining hands
with the skeletal consonants of the dead
to make one whole word we can say in our sleep
like a secret we keep between ourselves.
And for the moment I feel almost complete here
like the first draft of a book
that the dead have yet to rewrite.
And though I've said it thousands of times before
in as many ways as I was inspired to,
like a fire that reared up at the mere shadow of the whip
to outrun the starlight for the sheer spirit
of challenging the will of this body
dug like a spur in its own ribs,
it was clear from the very beginning,
as clear as poppies and marigolds
in the summer of their oral traditions,
no more can be said in the dead of winter
than can be said by the living
to coax the wild crocuses out in spring.
You might be a lone night bird
that inhabits the woods like a magus
with too many stars to follow
to follow any one of them
and gratify your life by stargazing
and calling the faithful to prayer
like a muezzin in the morning
with the voice of an underground river.
And for all your lucidity you might never find
the long shadows of your ancestors
erecting the waterlilies of their tents
along the riverbanks of those rivers and lifelines
you keep returning to every year like waterbirds.
Or you could find no sign of anyone
for light years who could recognize you
for who you are even as you change time-zones
like a child with ageing eyes
who was raised by the alone with the Alone
in an incomprehensible solitude that included everyone.
Here where distinctions break down
and the dead and the living both draw
from the same source as they've always done
each is known to the other
by attributes that neither of them have.
The warm heart of a black rose
looking back over its shoulder
at a bend in the night creek,
the moon rising up over the valley,
a pearl in partial eclipse,
taking one long, last look
at the broken cages of ghostly tree limbs
and shattered ladders of lifeboat wing bones
that drowned on the way to their own rescue.
Is one side of a window truer than another?
Inner and outer, I and the other
truly separated by this mere hole in my eye?
Do the stars streaming through my mind
feel a subtle change in the nature of the sky
when they do, a different feel to the darkness,
something strange about the flowers
they open like loveletters, sensing someone
has been tampering with their mail
as if the message were still the medium
but with a different return address?
Is my absence any less baffling than my presence?
These with the hearts of departed things
any less whole or real or displaced
or death any less of a prelude to time
than any other point in its passage is?
Even in death, even when the sun
shines at midnight it's always dawn.
The waterbirds go. The waterbirds come back.
Like an ongoing dialogue in an hourglass
where content is the same as timing
and the most enduring of things
are the things that most readily pass
between the bright vacancy
and dark abundance of life
like the moon that keeps growing
without coming or going like a journey
standing in the doorway
of its own unending threshold.
poem by Patrick White
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Ghost-Cycle
They argue and fight over dead bones,
One of them is a skull making him ill.
There is utter disbelief, just decaying bones
Ready for burial like no other corpse.
Some say it will grow and inhibit us
By rejecting our ways and entering our affairs.
Some say we see and hear everything it says,
But the deceit is maximum, all the time
That we find it invisible from some satanic source.
Since the universe follows laws too special
It, the corpse, betrays us and its task
To fail as bones and so it goes on in the cycle.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Concrete Bed
Why is he there
too wasted to think
on a bed of concrete;
he needs one more drink.
Over night in jail
his punishment be
found crawling the streets
on bended knee.
He feels like a fool
the warden shakes his head
he was embarrassed and unclean
on a concrete bed.
He tossed and turned
till the new morn
with his face in his hands
cursed the day he was born.
Bail was posted
a fool took a chance
he’s a no good drunk
you can tell with one glance.
He’ll be back soon
on this concrete bed
with alcohol the culprit
he’ll wish he was dead.
poem by Mimie Durand
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All limerick of the end
a silence that cramped between the wall
I shouting the madness
a harmless soul passed by the door
and the death
the funeral of the heart
a rampage to the the sadness
short memory of the dreams
the eyes are Mesmerizing to the sky
the heart is dancing with the white wolf of the destiny
an angel is falling down
Collapsed Eden of the mind
failed procedure of the love
drowned vessel of the logic
all limerick of the end
poem by Aidin Azarkerdar
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